


a dying something never dead

by troubadore



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Past Geralt/Yennefer, Soulmates, implied geralt/jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25515355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troubadore/pseuds/troubadore
Summary: He watches the flames flicker and dance, fingers stretching and curling in various shades of grey. In his mind's eye, he tries to conjure up the exact shade of yellow-orange they should be, but finds he can't quite remember what it looks like.It's all just...grey.
Relationships: Jaskier | Dandelion/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 9
Kudos: 71





	a dying something never dead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VioletVampirex](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletVampirex/gifts).



> the lovely rhys requested some yenskier soulmates and i LOVED the idea so here it is! 
> 
> this is a colors soulmate au that's based on the idea that a person can have several potential soulmates because people can be compatible with multiple others at once—you see in black and white until you find someone whose soul your soul "resonates" with and gives you the ability to see colors. falling out of resonance will take the colors away unless you have another soul you're currently resonating with
> 
> takes place post-s1 where jaskier and yennefer have been friends with benefits for a while, jaskier has befriended and traveled with both eskel and lambert at a point, and they all are spending the winter after the battle of sodden hill and geralt and ciri united in kaer morhen

Fire still roars in the hearth across the room, fed by a lazy flick of Yennefer's fingers and warming the spacious bedroom. Jaskier's fingers trail over her bare skin in gentle, absent caresses, the sheets tossed at the end of the bed during their earlier activities. 

He watches the flames flicker and dance, fingers stretching and curling in various shades of grey. In his mind's eye, he tries to conjure up the exact shade of yellow-orange they should be, but finds he can't quite remember what it looks like. 

It's all just...grey. 

Yennefer's hair tickles him as she turns her head against his chest, settling more comfortably against him. Her leg slips between his. 

"What color do you miss the most?" she asks, breaking the content silence that had fallen over him when their moans died down. 

Jaskier hums thoughtfully, still staring at the hearth. If there's one thing Kaer Morhen doesn't skimp on, it's the ability to warm what would otherwise be cold, dark halls. He opens his mouth to answer, but she cuts him off. 

"If you say gold, I _will_ turn you into a toad." 

It draws a laugh out of him, genuine and light. His hands slide from her arms to her waist as she rolls over onto him, propping herself up on him to look him in the eye. Her hair falls around her shoulders in inky black waves—he thinks there should be highlights in it, other colors that give it a certain shine and depth, but he can't see them anymore. 

"Hm," he hums theatrically, exaggerating the sound. "Is it too cliché to say blue? The soft blue of the sky, the deep blue of the ocean. Or perhaps green—the pale meadow grasses, the emerald of the tree leaves." 

He turns his head back to the fire. "I miss red, too. Deeply passionate, burning red." 

She's quiet for a moment before she says, softly, "You wore red on the mountain." 

"I did," he agrees. 

The mountain had been earth brown and forest green and hazy storm blue, haloed in the golden light of the setting sun, then the buttery yellow of dawn and fading, steadily, to muted tones as a wish had been revealed and truths had come to light. It had been a pale grey coat and a set of black armor, the most vibrant colors before his eyes. 

But grey and black aren't colors, not really. 

_You will lose her._

_He already has._

_Dammit, Jaskier!_

_That's not fair._

_If life could give me one blessing—_

Jaskier had watched, heart cracking in two in his chest, as the colors of his world that had burst into being in a tavern at the edge of the world seeped right back out of it, like an open, deep wound left untended and bleeding out. 

Souls, fallen out of sync. 

Resonance disrupted. 

_—it would be to take_ you _off my hands!_

"Hey." Yennefer's voice pulls him out of his thoughts, her hand gentle on his face. "You still with me, bard?" 

He blinks, casting away the memories, and looks at her, offering her a small, wan smile. "Sorry, witch. I was so taken with your exquisite beauty, I had to compose a sonnet in your honor." 

Yennefer snorts, eyes rolling dramatically, but she allows the distraction. "Please, spare me. I hear enough of it outside the bedroom." 

_"Full faith I have,"_ Jaskier begins reciting, _"she holds that rarest gift to beauty: Common Sense. To see her lie with her fair visage an inverted sky, bloom-covered, while the underlids uplift, would almost wreck the faith—"_

"Stop!" she demands, fighting a laugh, pushing her hand against his face to shut him up. He grins against her palm, pulling her close and rolling over, and she huffs as he pins her to the mattress. He trails his lips up her smooth skin, lingering at her collarbone, moving up her neck and continuing his recitation. 

_"But when her mouth—can it kiss sweetly? Sweetly!—would address the inner me that thirsts for her, no less, and has so long been languishing in drought—"_

Their lips hover for a moment before she tilts her head and kisses him, silencing him, and Jaskier finds himself once more flipped to his back as she straddles him. His hands wander up her curves, fingertips trailing feather-light over her smooth skin, warm from the fire and their shared body heat. 

They pull apart, breathing heavily, and he finishes, _"I feel that I am matched; that I am man!"_

She rolls her eyes at him again, huffing in amusement. "You're a menace, bard." 

"Part of my bardly charms," he quips back with a grin. 

Comfortable silence settles over them again, the crackle of the hearth and the sounds of nightlife floating in from the open window their only ambient background score. Jaskier gazes up at Yennefer, eyes taking in the grey tone of skin he knows to be a warm color, though he cannot see it. His own is a few shades lighter as he runs a hand up her side, fingertips dancing over her as he plucks invisible, soundless melodies against her. 

"What color do you miss the most?" he asks, voice a murmur. The fire pops, then settles. 

Yennefer gazes down at him with dark eyes, her hands slowly tracing up and down his chest in absent movements. It sends sparks skittering up his skin and pleasant shivers down his spine. 

"Yellow," she finally says, casting her eyes down before looking toward the hearth. "I'm told Ciri is blonde, but her hair just looks pale grey to me. Red, too. And orange. My fire was just empty shades of grey." 

She looks back at him and her lips quirk up, bringing up a hand to touch, gently, beneath his eye. "Blue as well, I think." 

He brings a hand up to cup her cheek. "Purple was always a nice color," he murmurs. "Regal. Royal. Strong." 

They're quiet admissions, quiet acknowledgements: the bard and the witch might not have gotten on at first, but they're thick as thieves now, as inseparable from each other as they are from the witcher they're both tied to, in their own ways. 

She leans into his touch, still grinning at him cheekily as she turns her face to press her lips to his palm. Fingers tangling in her hair, he draws her down to him, lips meeting in a kiss, and he hums when her tongue slips into his mouth. 

It's deep, and wet, and unhurried; they break apart only to come together again, over and over, lazy and rhythmic like waves along the shore, like a slow waltz—one leading the other in practiced movements, smooth and flowing one into the other so seamlessly it's as if it's a single, continuous step. 

Bodies in tune. 

Souls in sync. 

There's no particular spark _,_ no noticeable or tangible jolt when a soul finds a match. It simply falls into place, just _is,_ natural as anything. 

Jaskier finally pulls away, gasping for breath, chest heaving and head falling back on the pillow beneath it while Yennefer's sinful mouth moves to his neck. He lets out a contented hum when she bites at him and opens his eyes. 

The bedroom he was shown to by Eskel when they'd first arrived is paneled in a lovely dark wood, a rich oak that has brighter honey highlights in the warm golden glow of the fire. 

The sheets pooled around their bodies are a pale cream. 

Yennefer's eyes are a bright lavender as she looks up at him, glowing with power in the gentle light of the hearth. 

"Your eyes are blue," she says softly. 

Perfect resonance. 

**Author's Note:**

> the poem jaskier recites—and from which the title of this fic is taken—is _[Modern Love: XXXII](https://poets.org/poem/modern-love-xxxii)_ by george meredith 
> 
> find me on [twitter](http://twitter.com/troubadorer) where i'm horny for yenskier and geraskier~!


End file.
